Song and Daikon
by meganechan720
Summary: Raditz turns out to have a son and Bulma turns out to have a cousin. Vegeta could do without either of them, thanks.
1. Chapter 1

Song stepped off the bus and shaded her eyes with one hand. Capsule Corp. was huge, much more intimidating than it looked on TV. As she stood there a muffled explosion rocked the compound. She flinched, and turned back in time to see the bus driver give her an amused grin and drive off.

Well. Screw him. Song picked up her duffel bag and set her shoulders. She could do this. She had to. She had no other options. This did not comfort her.

But she walked up the drive to the main door anyway.

* * *

"WOMAN."

She flinched again, and lost the attention of the bored security guard before she'd even had a chance to state her business. He turned very pale and ducked down under his desk, leaving her gaping and trying to figure out where the angry male voice was coming from.

"WOMAN GET OUT HERE NOW. I NEED ASSISTANCE."

It was coming from just inside the compound, out on the lawn, and Song decided she might as well take advantage of the mayhem and slip inside.

"IF YOU CAN'T CALL ME BY MY NAME I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING FOR YOU, YOU SHORT BASTARD."

Ah. That was Bulma. So the angry male voice belonged to her… husband? Song wasn't sure. Her mother had never mentioned a marriage in the Briefs clan, but then, it was only fifty-fifty that she would have mentioned such a thing anyway.

She heard a curse and before she could stop herself she ran into someone—someone peculiarly unyielding, and she was knocked over, her bag flying backwards to land some feet away from her. She had a brief impression of a lot of black, untamed hair and a scowling face—"Watch where you're going, fool!"—before the solid wall of a person strode off. Song turned to see a short man stop just under a window in the main building, and then tense to jump, and—

Surely she was seeing things. He'd—he'd merely—

No. He'd flown. Or simply jumped very high, but she was pretty sure what she'd seen counted as flight. She heard the same set of voices—Bulma and the angry male voice she now had a face to go with—yelling just inside the window, and then she heard another voice, a much more welcome one, behind her.

"Song, sweetie, is that you?"

She jumped to her feet and turned around in time to be tackled with a huge hug by the blond woman she had last seen at her kindergarten graduation.

"Song, it _is_ you! What are you doing here, darling, you should have called, where's your mother, are you hungry?"

"Aunt Pansy…" she murmured, not returning the hug, and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She would not cry. She wouldn't. Her aunt released her from the hug and held her appraisingly at arm's length. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer and more understanding.

"You look famished, dear. Come inside, I'll make you some sandwiches."

And she was grateful that Pansy turned away to lead her inside, because she did cry, then, a little.

* * *

"Is… is Bulma here?" she asked from behind her third sandwich. Pansy nodded, busy slicing more tomatoes. Song was well aware of her aunt's propensity to cook ridiculous amounts of food, but the mound of tomato slices next to the cutting board was getting on six inches tall, and there were three large bowls of torn lettuce. Nearly six pounds of bacon sat next to stove, apparently all intended for frying. She wondered if she'd interrupted a party. A large party.

"Your cousin's upstairs, I think, it sounds like she's talking to Vegeta. They might be a while up there, but they'll be down here for lunch, you can count on that."

Song scoffed at her aunt's choice of words— _talking_ —but now she had a name to go with the angry voice and angry face. She took another bite of her sandwich. Pansy set down her knife and pinned her with a stare in the way only women of their family could. Her own eyes were just as squinty as her aunt's, but Pansy had more practice, and Song looked away first, gathering up bread crumbs from her plate and squishing them together into a ball.

"What brings you here, sweetie? Your mother didn't call to say you were coming."

Song pinched the ball of crumbs until it flattened and disintegrated.

"She kicked me out," she mumbled. Pansy made a noise of sympathy.

"Well, you know you can always stay here, Song, sweetie. Until you and your mother work things out."

Song scoffed to herself. They were not going to work things out. Her mother, in point of fact, had not kicked her out, but Song wasn't going back there come hell or high water so it hardly mattered.

"Anyway, why don't I show you to a room. We had quite a lot of guests at one point and we never did close down all the guest bedrooms. There should be plenty of space for you."

Song nodded and followed her aunt upstairs. She'd forgotten how huge this place was. She heard about Capsule Corp. all the time on the news, but didn't often connect it to the sister her mother rarely spoke of. As they rose she could hear the sounds of arguing growing louder, but luckily they did not seem to be coming from the floor Pansy eventually settled her into.

"Why don't you have a shower and change out of those clothes. Come downstairs when you're done. I'm sure Bulma would love to see you."

Song only nodded, but in truth she would only be doing it to please her aunt. She wasn't sure she'd ever met Bulma, or if she had, she'd been only a baby. Seeing her meant nothing. Pansy gave her another smile, and went back downstairs.

She started to go to her bag, and then looked down at her clothes, a black and white striped long sleeve shirt and jeans with holes at the knees.

"What's wrong with these, anyway?" she whispered to herself. Aunt Pansy's words had reminded her of the fact that she was still wearing the same clothes as the night of the big argument, even though it felt like it had happened years ago. Her mother had mentioned her choice of outfit then too.

Song scowled. She'd change, but only because she wanted to get out of dirty clothes.

As she soaked in the tub she could hear the arguing voices grow louder, and then softer, as the speakers passed the bathroom where she was. They did seem to be going downstairs for lunch. She immersed herself in the tub and wondered how long she could get away with staying in the bathroom. An hour? A week? Forever?

She only soaked for half an hour, but she did the full number on her hair, teasing the long side of her half-shave up and out, to fall gracefully over the right side of her face after rising nearly six inches above her head. She did her makeup too, but only to stall for time.

Eventually she ran out of ways to stall and made her way downstairs.

Bulma was still there, complaining to her mother about something, but when she saw Song she broke off and turned toward her.

"Gosh, Song, is that really you? What the hell have you done to your hair?"

"Hi to you too," she muttered as Bulma came over and ran her fingers through Song's very hair-sprayed locks. She grimaced at the texture and when she pulled Song in for a hug it was short and perfunctory.

"Mom tells me you're going to be here for a while. Listen, of course you're welcome as long as you need a place to stay and everything, but it would really be a big help if you could watch Trunks for me while I'm working."

Song blinked at her cousin, who had said all of this over her shoulder as she went to the sink to wash the hair-spray off her fingers.

"Who's Trunks?" was all she could think to say.

"Oh, he's my son. Normally when Vegeta's not training him he follows me around, but he's getting too old to be allowed in the workroom; he keeps destroying things," her cousin said with an affectionate eyeroll. Song nodded vaguely to show she'd heard (though she couldn't say she quite understood it all; _training him?_ ), but Bulma's eyes lit up and she smiled widely.

"Oh, you will? Thank you, thank you so much. I'm sure he won't be too much trouble." Before Song could protest Bulma checked her watch. "I have to go. See you at dinner, cuz!"

Song watched her cousin walk away, wondering if she should go upstairs and repack her bag or just split now before anyone noticed.

A tug on the hem of her shirt made her look down. A young boy with purple hair ( _Briefs hair_ , she thought) was staring mischievously up at her.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Trunks."

* * *

Daikon thanked the Namekian and strode back to his spaceship, heart lighter than it had been in months. He finally had a lead—a real lead! Granted, the Namekian had not been able to give him coordinates, but he had a name and a description— Earth, green and with much water. He climbed aboard the small pod and gave the launch command. As stasis claimed him, he fixed his eyes on the picture tucked behind the manual controls—an image of a red-skinned woman scowling, her white hair disheveled and tied back messily. His own face, much younger, peeked out from behind his mother, eyes wide and cautious, hair black and cut short. He fell asleep dreaming of cook fires and purple skies.

* * *

 _A/N: holy cow, this thing has been languishing on my hard drive for the last six or seven years. It isn't finished yet, but I've got a good amount of chapters already written, and some ideas for where to go with it, and after all this time I still want to do something with it. In case it wasn't already clear, this is pure, unadulterated self-indulgence, so YMMV._

 _Oh, and can you guess what Song's name pun is? ;)  
_


	2. Chapter 2

"Holy crap, Song, what happened to your face?"

Song scowled into her soup. She'd thought it a mercy when Trunks had hit her right eye, but apparently her hair wasn't thick enough to hide such a large bruise. The little boy looked guiltily up at her, and she gave him a comforting smile.

"I ran into a door," she said sourly to Bulma, swallowing a mouthful of soup that burned her tongue. Bulma frowned.

"Did Trunks hit you?" she asked, her own dinner forgotten. Song downed a glass of water, wondering if it was better or worse that the kid was so cute. He really hadn't meant to hit her, and the look on his face when he had—so guilty and horrified—had pierced her right in the center of her chest and she'd known then, if only in the back of her head, that she wasn't going to leave.

"Are you calling me a liar?" she muttered, after a too long pause. Bulma's face went grim, and Song tensed for a fight. But just then the short man with tall hair strode lazily into the room, his presence expanding to fill every corner. Every eye went to him, though he ignored them as though they were beneath his notice.

Song hated him instantly.

"Oh, hi, Vegeta," Pansy said, as he claimed his seat and began eating from the large tray Song had assumed was another communal plate. "You haven't met Song yet, have you. She's my niece, and she'll be staying here with us for a while. Song, this is Vegeta. Vegeta, Song."

He paused in his eating just long enough to glance at her. Song couldn't help the disgusted scowl that spread across her face— he had given her as much notice as she might give a stain on the tablecloth. Bulma, who had not resumed eating, didn't seem to have noticed, and in fact looked ready to resume her cross-examination. Song glanced down at Trunks, who was watching the proceedings with large eyes, and hoped Pansy would forgive her for what she did next.

"It wasn't Trunks, Bulma. It was that guy."

She jerked her chin at Vegeta, who regarded her with narrow eyes. He finished chewing and swallowed, and somehow the motion was dangerous. Bulma looked unsure, for the first time since Song had seen her, and that was a victory in itself.

"And just what am I being accused of?" he said in a voice like a chunk of granite wrapped in silk. Song felt a twist of fear in her gut, but she pulled her curtain of hair away from her face to reveal the large, ugly bruise that she knew, from her makeup mirror, was purple and blue and tinged with green and yellow at the edges. A very impressive shiner, and certainly a wound that looked more believably to have come from the muscular man sitting across the table than from the little boy next to her.

"I am supposed to have given you that?" Vegeta prompted, when Song didn't say anything. She nodded, dropping her hair. Pansy's mouth was frozen in a little 'o' of surprise, and Bulma looked angry, though it wasn't clear at whom.

"He didn't like the way I was playing with Trunks, so he backhanded me." Song didn't care if her story didn't hold up in the long run, she just wanted to see him squirm right now, wanted to pierce him with even just a little bit of the fear he inspired in her. But he laughed. Threw back his head and laughed, and Song could see some of the tension flow out of Bulma's shoulders, though she still looked as angry as before.

"I'm beginning to see why your mother kicked you out," she said, over Vegeta's laughter. Song clenched her hands unconsciously.

"What?" she demanded, eyes flicking back and forth from Vegeta to Bulma and back again. "He hit me!"

"I did no such thing, child, and everyone here knows it," Vegeta said, laughter suddenly gone. "If you are going to come into my house and make baseless accusations, I suggest you leave."

Song was suddenly on her feet.

" _Your_ house!" she spat. His arrogance was making her breathless, or maybe that was the fear. She had to get out of here. It had been a mistake to come here. Trunks wasn't that cute. Her mother was right after all; it was impossible for people to like her. "Fine!" She stomped out of the room and up the stairs, wondering if they let you buy bus tickets to nowhere. Behind her she heard Trunks asking something in a high, fearful voice, but she blocked her ears to it. It had been a mistake to come here. So she would leave.

But when Pansy came into the bedroom where she was packing, arms open and face sympathetic, her own face crumpled and she told her everything, from the very beginning, even though saying some of it made her cry so hard she nearly threw up. Pansy only stroked her hair, ignoring the hair spray, and listened to all of it.

* * *

First she apologized to Vegeta.

Pansy led her to a strange room that she referred to as the 'Gravity Room,' though when the door opened it looked merely like an exercise room. Vegeta was shirtless and stank sharply of sweat; Song resisted the urge to hide behind her aunt, though she did duck her head so her hair shielded her face.

"I-I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled. "I shouldn't have done that. I—" She trailed off, not wanting to give an explanation if she didn't have to. She peeked through her hair at his face, which was set in what she was beginning to think of as his usual scowl.

"Damn straight," was all he said, though he added, "You'd do better to apologize to the woman. She won't shut up about it."

The door slammed shut, and Song looked up at Pansy uncertainly. Pansy smiled.

"That's Vegeta, dear. He's a little hard to get along with sometimes, but he's not a bad man once you get to know him."

They walked towards Bulma's lab, where Pansy assured her Bulma would be at this hour and in this mood. Song asked,

"Auntie, are they… married?"

"No." Pansy shook her head sadly. "It's complicated, dear," was all she would say when Song opened her mouth again.

Bulma was less forgiving than Vegeta, and somehow even more intimidating, in a jumpsuit and welding goggles, a strange device clutched in her hand that looked like it would be quite painful to be on the receiving end of.

"Song, I can't believe you. You come into my house, you eat my food, you—"

"Dear," Pansy said quietly, and, amazingly, Bulma stopped. "She's been through a lot, lately, Bulma dear, and she's here to apologize."

"I'm sorry," Song blurted, taking her cue. "It won't happen again. And I'll keep watching Trunks. I don't mind."

This was clearly the right thing to say, for Bulma's expression turned thoughtful.

"It was Trunks, wasn't it." It wasn't a question. Song bit her lip.

"Yeah," she admitted, and then continued hurriedly. "He didn't mean to. He said he was sorry, and I know it won't happen again. Please don't get him in trouble."

Bulma actually laughed.

"All right, all right, I can't hate anyone who obviously likes Trunks so much." Her expression grew more grim. "But first I want to know why you did that. You don't even know Vegeta. Why would you blame something like that on him?"

Song stood, silent, for a long time. Truthfully, she did not know why she had done it. She had simply wanted to make him uncomfortable, to knock him off the obviously rock-steady self-assurance he carried with him; wanted to tear into the arrogance he wore like a cape. What was so wrong with her that she had actually done something about it she did not know—it was something her mother often wondered out loud. Song shrugged. Bulma continued to study her for a few moments, and then turned back to her work, pulling down her goggles.

"Just don't do it again," she ordered, before turning on the welding torch with a sharp hiss.

* * *

Daikon had to look through massive amounts of data, but he finally found a planet that matched the Namekian's description. It had been slated for purging, he was unnerved to note, but there was no confirming symbol in the corner of the file that meant it had been carried out. He made himself breathe. It had to still be intact. Nevermind that the dates were far too close to the breakup of the Kold empire for his liking, for record keeping had gone downhill after the death of Frieza and his father; the dates were not that close. There had to be someone still there; some clue, even if no people remained. It was the only lead he had left, and he realized too late that he had pinned all his hopes on it.


	3. Chapter 3

Song slipped out of Trunks' bedroom with a sigh of relief. The kid was finally asleep at his proper nap time, and that meant she could finally do what she'd been meaning to do all week. She danced silently down the hall to the TV room and flipped it on, cursing and hurriedly turning down the volume when it came on blasting.

She cocked an ear to see if the noise had woken Trunks up, but when she heard nothing, she relaxed and turned it to the right channel. She still had fifteen minutes before it started, so she decided to channel surf while she waited.

After ten minutes she had finally gone through every channel (she hadn't known there _were_ that many channels) and was now making the rounds again, when the door opened behind her and Vegeta walked in.

She froze, but all he did was plop down onto the couch next to her and hold his hand out imperiously for the remote. Song was still not sure if he had forgiven her, and in the week she had been here this was the first time they'd interacted besides meals and dropping Trunks off at the Gravity Room. She handed him the remote.

To her surprise he punched in the number for the very channel she had been planning to watch. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he wanted her to leave. But he seemed to be ignoring her. From Vegeta, she was beginning to sense, that was as good as an out-and-out invitation.

"Don't change the channel," he ordered, getting up. She flinched at the sound of his voice, but when he returned carrying an armful of microwave popcorn bags, she began to suspect that wondering if he had forgiven her was perhaps not the right question. The better question was, had her little stunt even bothered him in the first place?

To her amazement he held the first bag of popcorn between his hands, concentrated for a moment, and then slowly spread his hands apart as the kernels started popping and the bag inflated. She could feel the heat coming from his hands, and she found herself unable to look away, even when he tossed her the first bag and began popping a second one for himself in the same manner.

"How—"

"Ki."

Having no clue what that meant, she decided not to look gift popcorn in the mouth. Opening the bag, she turned back to the TV, trying to pay attention to the recap.

"Wait—Jessica actually married Brent?" she exclaimed before she could stop herself. Vegeta was already mostly done with his bag of popcorn, and he snorted in amusement before swallowing his mouthful.

"Her bitch of a step-mother blackmailed her into doing it."

"What, did she threaten to tell him who the real father is? I thought she didn't know about that."

"She doesn't, but she does know that Jessica was dating Brent's brother. She threatened to lie and tell him that the baby was his, and Jessica figured that was close enough to the truth to count as a real threat. Now, me," he said, picking up another bag and popping it, "I would have killed that bitch a long time ago."

She laughed, and then went silent as the episode began in earnest. Her mind was still reeling with the revelation that not only did Vegeta not seem to hate her, could fly and pop popcorn with his hands, he also apparently watched the same soap opera she did. She resolved not to bother him for the rest of the episode just in case she was still in his bad books, but when Kenan walked into Celeste's bar with a gun and shot her, she couldn't help giving a shout.

"What the hell!"

"That bastard!" Vegeta agreed.

"She was just trying to give him some space! She didn't even want to break up with him."

"Her father had better kill him or he's not the man I thought he was."

Vegeta popped bag number nine, eyes never leaving the screen as Celeste was taken to the hospital, and Song was more than pleased when he handed her the bag, apparently having noticed that hers was empty.

"Thanks," she said softly. He grunted, and picked up a bag for himself.

* * *

There it was: Earth. And still thriving, from what his onboard computer was telling him. Daikon brushed the picture of his mother with the tips of his fingers, and gave the command to land.

* * *

Vegeta set Song down on the floor of the Lookout, glad for the excuse not to participate in the festivities taking place in the front garden. He nodded imperiously at Dende.

"She needs your skills, boy," he said, indicating Song. The girl had played a little too rough with Trunks the day before and he had broken her arm; she'd been given a cast and a lot of morphine, as well as a get well card from Trunks, who was himself sporting a black eye from his father to drive the point home that hitting people too hard was bad. When Song had burst into drug-induced tears in the middle of his argument with Bulma over that, both of them had been forced to apologize and hug each other in front of her to get her to stop. Despite Song's condition Bulma had insisted she come along to the Lookout for the anniversary picnic, her excuse being that Dende could fix her arm. Vegeta saw no point in celebrating another year come and gone from the defeat of an enemy, but he had already been coerced into coming, so he was glad, at least, that he had been allowed to bring his own entertainment.

Dende edged closer, still wary of him after all this time.

"Who is she?" he asked, kneeling down and placing his hands over her.

"Bulma's cousin," Vegeta said, sitting back. He found the boy's obvious dislike of him amusing, but not as amusing as Song was going to be once she woke up.

Song stirred, and mumbled something. Dende frowned.

"Is she drunk, sir?" he said tremulously. His voice was a little deeper than it had been at their first meeting, though he was still far from whatever the Namekian equivalent of puberty was.

"Something like that."

Dende hummed. "She is not responding as I had hoped," he said, a doctor's response if Vegeta had ever heard one.

"What does that mean?" he asked, when Dende didn't say anything else.

"There is something in her system I do not recognize."

Vegeta waved a dismissive hand. "That's fine, as long as the arm's fixed."

Song opened her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused, and she stared at nothing for a while, just breathing. Then she said in a light, high voice,

"Vegeta? Whyzzat man green?"

Vegeta hid a smile. This was going to be fun.

"He's green because he's very, very sick," he said seriously. Song's brow puckered.

"Is he gonna throw up on me?" she asked worriedly, still in that high, vague voice. Vegeta tried harder not to laugh.

"Yes, Song," he said. "You'd better get out of the way quick, before he loses it."

"But I am not—" Dende began, but Vegeta put up a hand, as Song sat up quickly. Then she swayed and slumped down against Vegeta.

"Why's it spinning?" she demanded, trying unsuccessfully to make her limbs work together to help her sit up. Vegeta pushed her gently upright.

"Vegeta, sir?" Dende queried, as much disturbed at Vegeta's gentle treatment of the girl as her mental state.

"She'll be fine, Dende," he said, grinning. "In a few hours."

"Where're we?" Song asked, frowning deeply at him.

"We're in the sky, Song," he said in a soft sing-song that he could see gave Dende the creeps.

"The—" She appeared to think this over. "Izzat why he's so sick?"

"Yes," Vegeta said, nodding. "He gets very airsick, this one." He allowed a grin to overtake his face as Song turned to Dende and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.

"'s'okay," she said. "Even if you throw up on me, I won't hate you."

Vegeta couldn't help the bark of a laugh that escaped him at that. Song turned to him, concerned.

"'re you okay, Vegeta?" She was talking in slow motion, which was funny enough on its own that it took him a moment to regain his composure.

"Yes, I'm alright," he said. "I just had a slight cough."

"Don' get sick," she ordered. "If you get sick you can't train Trunks. An' then I have to watch him all day. Though I guess I wouldn't mind that too much. He's pretty cute."

She began a long, meandering dissertation about how cute his son was, and Vegeta tuned her out, disappointed that his fun had run out so soon. He looked up in time to see Krillin, in the thick of the party, turn abruptly away from his wife and look up to the sky. He wasn't just admiring the clouds: his head was moving slightly back and forth as though scanning for something. Vegeta had a grudging respect for the man's ki-sense; his power level might be a joke, but he had fine-tuned his abilities to the point that he could even sense his wife's energy. He had, of course, refused to teach Vegeta, much less any of the rest of them, the trick of it.

"Dende, watch her," Vegeta ordered, and stood up, striding over to the picnic, which was starting to falter as others picked up on Krillin's concern.

"What is it, man?" Yamcha demanded, the drink in his hand forgotten. Krillin looked grim.

"There's a power level out there in space, coming right towards us," he said. "It's not that big, but it's definitely not human."

Vegeta reached out to where he could feel Krillin concentrating, and felt it as well.

"Pah," he scoffed. "Even you could handle that nothing."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Vegeta," Krillin said, not taking his eyes off the sky, as though he expected to see the unknown being coming down out of the clouds. "It could be a scout, or whoever it is could even be suppressing their power level. I'm not going to relax until we know more."

"I don't sense anything," Yamcha announced. "Are you sure you aren't just seeing things, buddy?" he added, grinning nervously. Vegeta rolled his eyes.

"It's there, all right, weakling," he informed him. Yamcha gulped.

"Krillin's right," Piccolo cut in, eyes also on the sky. "We have to be cautious until we know whether or not this is a threat."

"When is it ever _not_ a threat?" Gohan said grimly, and Vegeta had to agree with him. He had never encountered a group of people that attracted as much trouble as these buffoons.

He leaned against a nearby pillar as they debated back and forth on their course of action; Vegeta knew what he was doing, and that was exactly nothing unless the newcomer turned out to be a challenge. He closed his eyes, and resigned himself to boredom.


	4. Chapter 4

Daikon set down gently on the only thing on the entire planet that could possibly be called a spaceport. It was tiny, and insanely primitive, but it was also where the only beings with any sort of power level were gathered. He stepped out, his spiel ready, but when he saw the creatures gathered before him all he could do was stare.

Holy shit. Holy _shit_.

These people were Saiyans. Well, not all of them, and none of them had tails that he could see, but tails were easy enough to hide, and on some of them he couldn't be sure he simply wasn't looking at the right angle. He had come expecting to be sent on his way to the next point of his search, but it looked as though his search was over. He had hit the jackpot.

Remember the script, Daikon. Oh, hell, just say _something_.

"Um… hello," he began, and then tapped his scouter in irritation when their faces all contorted in confusion. The damn thing was ancient and had a habit of cutting in and out of service for no reason, and he was hoping a jolt would at least make the translator start working—it only needed a few minutes of speech before he would be able to speak it without its help, but not if it never started working in the first place—but then he noticed that the gesture towards his device had made the lot of them tense up, and his scouter started working in time to start beeping wildly as power levels began rising. Rising? Could power levels do that?

He dropped his hands slowly, hoping the translator was working as well.

"Excuse me," he said in the most polite speech he knew. "I seek merely the inexact location of a man/possible kin/being whom you may know well/know somewhat/may not know."

He heard a laugh coming from the back of the group, and a voice, addressing him in Galactic Common, carried over the mass of probably-Saiyans.

"Your translator is not working properly, [possible] friend."

"I apologize," he began, but then the speaker came into view, and he halted again. That face, that hair:

"Vegeta!"

"That's Prince Vegeta to you, [unknown] subordinate," the man said, frowning deeply. "Tell me quickly, what business do you have here on this world [that I call home]?"

"I—sir— perhaps—" Daikon was aware that he was stuttering, and he coughed and tried to continue more intelligently. "I am seeking merely a certain personage; may I humbly ask if you are able/willing to provide assistance in this search?"

Prince Vegeta rolled his eyes.

"Do not weave formalities so tightly, young subordinate," he ordered. "Speak what you have to say plainly."

"I—" Daikon clenched a fist to keep it from trembling—he _had_ asked him to be plain. "D'ya know Raditz?"

The Saiyan prince inclined his head to the left, studying Daikon. Daikon let him. This was a stroke of luck indeed! Raditz was known to have traveled with Vegeta and Nappa before he disappeared; surely this man would at least be able to point him in the right direction.

"I do not know the one called Raditz," he drawled lazily. "For the one called Raditz is dead, and none know him now."

Daikon felt the blood drain from his face. He heard the others talking, but as for himself, everything seemed to drain away.

* * *

"Vegeta," Krillin said, oh so patiently. "I hate to interrupt the pleasantries, but we're all kind of in suspense here! Is he dangerous or not?"

"Aw, he's nothing," Yamcha said, waving a hand dismissively at the red-skinned, black-haired alien who was wearing dilapidated Saiyan armor. "What I wanna know is, why the hell do you two keep talking about Raditz?"

Vegeta spoke over his shoulder, keeping his gaze on Daikon.

"He's looking for him. I don't know why yet. Oi, woman!"

He strode over to Daikon, unhooking his scouter.

"This thing's broken. Fix it."

He tossed the scouter over his shoulder to land neatly in Bulma's lap. She rolled her eyes at the obvious showing off, but pulled out her pocket toolkit and got to work. Vegeta and the alien continued their exchange, the young man asking desperate and pointed questions, Vegeta answering in the same even tone. Eventually the alien pointed uncertainly at Piccolo, and Vegeta nodded.

"What?" Piccolo demanded. "What does he want with me?"

Vegeta smirked. "He wants to kill you, I think."

* * *

Daikon weighed his options. So, Raditz was dead. That was… a blow, he could not lie to himself. But he had died in battle, which meant only that his course of action was now to seek vengeance against the one that had killed him. He had ascertained from Prince Vegeta that the one mainly responsible for Raditz's death was the Namekian standing among the crowd behind them. Simple enough, except that he had actually been killed in battle with Nappa and then brought back to life (Vegeta refused to explain how, but the way he said it Daikon believed him). Nappa had in turn been killed by Vegeta himself, who, he grudgingly admitted, had been killed by Frieza and then also brought back. For a horrifying moment Daikon wondered if Frieza had been brought back as well and he was going to have to track _him_ down, but then Vegeta went on, to Daikon's growing amazement. Frieza had been killed by a Saiyan named Trunks, who himself had been killed in a battle with a being called Cell, who had been defeated chiefly, though not exclusively, by a young half-Saiyan named Gohan.

Daikon was pretty sure he'd never heard of a Chain of Vengeance this long or convoluted.

His thoughts were interrupted by Vegeta tossing him his repaired scouter. Piccolo was glaring at him, and though his scouter told him the Namekian's power level was only about 300, there was something about him that made Daikon nervous.

"And why does he want to kill me?" Piccolo was saying icily to Vegeta when the translator kicked back in.

"Ah—" Daikon stuttered, trying not to glare at Vegeta. "I have issued no challenge as of yet. Prince Vegeta's explanation was... a bit hard to believe."

"Explanation of what?" Piccolo asked, still glaring. Daikon took a steadying breath. Everything was so close to fruition, he just had to get through this tangle of vengeance and then he would know what he had to do and he could just do it. He just had to focus on getting to that point.

"I am seeking vengeance against Raditz," he said, addressing Piccolo as calmly as he could. "It seems as though you have already killed him, which makes you my target now. Is that correct?"

Piccolo regarded him with a mix of confusion and amusement, but it was a short bald man who asked the question doubtless on everyone's minds:

"Why do you want revenge on Raditz? What'd he do to you?"

"Not me," Daikon muttered. "My mother."

No one could miss the way Vegeta, who had turned his back on the proceedings and seemed for all the world to be completely ignoring it, suddenly spun around and stared at Daikon hard, as though searching for something in his features.

"Your mother," he said slowly. "She's Brenchian, I suppose."

Daikon could only nod. Vegeta continued to stare at him as his expression slowly morphed into a mixture of amusement and disgust. He whistled loudly and then laughed.

"Oi, Gohan," he called. "It seems you have a cousin."

A young teenage boy, only a little less far into maturity than Daikon, turned and looked inquisitively from where he was sitting with a toddler on his knee. The short bald man demanded of Vegeta what he meant by that, and the woman sitting next to the boy who might be Daikon's cousin stood up and began shouting at Vegeta as well. Listening to their objections and Vegeta's amused answers Daikon found that Raditz had had a brother who had lived here on Earth, and the two youths were his children by the Earthling woman currently shouting at Vegeta. The presence of a brother explained why Raditz had ended up on such a backwater planet in the middle of galactic nowhere. As interesting as that factoid was, however, Daikon had a job to do, and he did not intend to waste any more time in doing it.

Ignoring the ruckus, which more individuals had joined, most of them also shouting at Vegeta, Daikon turned to Piccolo and spoke the words he'd been practicing his whole life.

"The end of the Chain lies with you, Namekian. Fight me and win if you can."

Namekians were rare throughout the galaxy; a person might go their whole lives and never meet one. But their reputation was everywhere, mostly as healers and peacemakers, but also as warriors. They were nothing to Saiyans of course, but the few of them that were fighters were known to be able to hold their own against anything except the mutated monsters and prodigies that had made up the Kold armies. This Namekian's low power level meant he was probably one of the healers, although how someone like that had defeated Raditz Daikon did not know. Still, he was very surprised when Piccolo threw back his head and laughed.

The shouting mob of people all silenced themselves instantly, and Piccolo lowered his head to stare at Daikon.

"You're saying because I killed Raditz you want to kill me?"

"I must," Daikon said through his teeth. It was too much to ask for him to respond with the proper verbiage, but he had to respond to the challenge in some way before Daikon could attack him and get this over with.

"I'd advise you to find some other way of restoring your mother's honor, kid," Piccolo said, almost kindly. "You have no hope of beating me."

Daikon blinked, his growing annoyance giving way to confusion. Was this some kind of bluff? Did he have some transformation Daikon was not aware of? The statement was utter nonsense, and the only explanation was that Piccolo truly believed he was stronger than him. Daikon thought it only right to put him straight.

"I have a power level of over 5,000," he informed him. "Yours is only 300. If you do not fight me I will be forced to give you a dishonorable death."

"Ooh, 5,000 he says." Vegeta's mocking voice carried easily from among the mob of people all watching them with interest. "Almost five times his old man's power level. What kind of a monster was your mother, eh, boy?"

Daikon grit his teeth and stayed focused on Piccolo. Insults were not the injury he had come to repair. The Namekian's black eyes regarded him silently, and Daikon felt the tension thrumming in his arms, waiting for a reason to snap. Finally Piccolo spoke.

"You seem determined to do this. So I'll let you take one shot without defending myself. Just one, and then we'll see if you still want to fight me."

So he wanted a quick death. He could have just said so. Daikon nodded and without any more warning he leapt into the air (despite his small power level, Piccolo himself was frighteningly large) and struck him in the face, hard and fast enough for his hand to pierce straight through and destroy the brain before the Namekian even noticed something happening.

At least, that was the plan.

Something happened that Daikon couldn't quite piece together until moments later. Somehow his fist just stopped when it should have kept going, and his arm kept going into his fist, and he heard a crunching sound that seemed to come from nowhere— no, not nowhere. Somewhere inside his body. Where there should have been a straight fist covered in purple blood there was something mangled and crooked, covered in black blood. His own blood. His fist was the mangled thing. He had broken his hand, his entire arm, on Piccolo's face, and that face was unharmed.

Something hot and heavy thrummed through Daikon's veins then. He didn't feel any pain, just a blank rage that allowed for nothing but violence. His tail came free and lashed behind him, and a buzzing sound that had been building for a while turned out to be a growl coming from his own chest.

"Let it be, kid," Piccolo said, sounding almost sorrowful. "I don't want to hurt you. Just give up."

"I can't!"

The sound of his own voice surprised him with the depths of its desperation. But there was nothing more to be said. His arm may not have hurt, but it was mangled beyond use, so Daikon jumped into the air and kicked at Piccolo's head, ready to hear the squish-crunch of brains inside a cracked skull. There was a crunch, alright— but it was the bones in his foot, crushed against an unyielding arm. Again the pain was absent, and rage filled its place. Balancing on one foot, Daikon brought back his good hand, ready to strike.

* * *

"Vegeta?" Song asked urgently, tugging on his shirt and hiding behind him. He turned to her, amused. She was staring at the alien with a disturbed expression on her face. "Vegeta, whyzzat man red?"

Vegeta knew Bulma would yell at him later, but he could not resist, not when such an opportunity for entertainment had availed itself.

"He's red because he's so mad," he explained. Her eyebrows shot up slowly.

"Who's he mad at?" she asked innocently.

"Well, Song, I'm sorry to say this, but he's mad at you." Her brows drew together comically, her mouth turning down in horror.

"At me?" she whispered, her face crumpling up tearfully. "But why?"

"I don't know why. Maybe you should ask him." Vegeta said solemnly. She sniffed a few more times, and then tottered unsteadily over to Daikon just as he reared back his fist, ready to have another useless go at Piccolo.

"I'm sorry!" she wailed, arms outstretched. Daikon snapped his head around to asses this new threat, and Vegeta thought for a split second that he had been too clever for his own good. Somehow though, instead of killing the girl in his blind rage, Daikon's eyes cleared and he came back to himself, just in time for Song to throw her arms around his neck, wailing. "I didn't mean it! Please don't be mad at me!"

Vegeta couldn't help it. The bewildered look on the boy's face was too priceless, especially when Song started bawling into his chest. The Prince threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

After the girl was lead away, still crying, Daikon suddenly felt his long months of travel and the pain of two broken limbs all fall on him at once, and he bowed his head in front of Piccolo, as good as admitting defeat. His scouter must have been faulty. Perhaps the number had been 30,000 or 300,000 and he had been on a fool's errand the whole time. It was clear, now that the rage peeled away and took its numbness with it, that he was not going to be avenging anyone.

"Hey, look, you tried your best," one of the spectators (yes, spectators, for this had been mere entertainment for them, not a true battle at all) said. It was the short bald one, awkwardly trying to place a hand on Daikon's shoulder in camaraderie. He swiped the hand away, gritting his teeth. The hand retreated, but the look of sympathy on the short man's face did not. "Sometimes you just have to know when to quit."

"Ha!" Daikon couldn't help the bitter bark of a laugh that escaped his throat. "You— none of you— understand. You can't possibly understand. I can't go back without — I can't —" His throat closed around the rest of the words.

"You're a Saiyan, right?" The voice was young, deeper than a child's but not yet a man's. Daikon looked up at a black haired boy, the one that seemed to be his cousin. He had dark circles under his eyes and a small child balanced on his hip. When their eyes met the boy gave a stiff smile. "That means you can get stronger."

Daikon blinked. Saiyans did have a mythical ability to come back stronger from fights, but no one was sure how they did it. No one on Brench had ever been willing to fight the monster boy, so Daikon had no idea if he possessed that ability too. A slyness entered the other boy's eyes and he slid them over to Piccolo.

"You can train with us, and then maybe you'll be strong enough to beat Mr. Piccolo."

The Namekian folded his arms forbiddingly across his chest and raised an eyebrow at the boy, who only smiled. They matched the gazes for a moment, and then Piccolo snorted in amusement.

"If that's what you want, Gohan," he said. Gohan's smiled brightened.

"Oh, no you don't." Out of the corner of his eye, Daikon could see everyone in the party flinch as Gohan's mother strode towards them. "I am _not_ having another monster in the house."

"But mom—"

"No buts! You and Goten are bad enough, not to mention Piccolo always coming around, taking you away from your studies. You are not inviting some alien into our house to eat our food and—where would he even sleep, we're not running a hotel you know—"

"We can take him in, Chi-Chi," the blue-haired woman interrupted, sounding amused. "Vegeta could use another sparring partner."

"Like hell I could," the prince spoke up, and Daikon was amazed to note that his voice held a note that sounded like his own when he knew he was not going to win an argument with his mother. The woman—his mate?—turned to him, eyes flashing.

"Yes, Vegeta, you could," she snapped. "Not to mention the way I see it, this whole situation is your fault."

"What!"

"You traveled with Raditz, right? Where were you when he was off having his jollies with the natives?"

"Bedding my own wenches, woman," the prince said, eyes narrowing. "Neither I, nor Nappa, were in any way responsible for Raditz's extracurricular activities, and I'll be damned before I see some half-blood bastard child of his living under my roof."

"Then it's a good thing he'll be living under _my_ roof. Don't forget, you may be the father of _my_ half-blood bastard child, but that's all you are. _I_ own Capsule Corp., _I_ own the roof over _your_ head, and I have the final say in who lives there and who doesn't."

The bald one, still hovering by Daikon's shoulder, took Daikon by one arm and Gohan by the other and led them surreptitiously away from the battlefield.

"Yikes," he muttered. Daikon suddenly felt very tired. His own personal quest for vengeance was nothing but a side-show to these people. Live with his cousin or live with the Saiyan Prince: what did it matter at this point? He was pulled from his melancholy when the bald one jostled his broken hand and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Ah, sorry about that," the man apologized. "Gohan, why don't you go get Dende?"

"Right!" Gohan ran off, and Daikon slumped down to the floor, using all his energy simply to keep from crying.

"I'd say you should probably consider Bulma's offer," the bald man advised, his voice gentle. "Once they stop arguing, that is. You look like you could use a lucky break right about now."

"I had thought—" Daikon ground out, "that coming to Earth— _was_ my lucky break."

The man laughed awkwardly.

"We're what you might call trouble magnets. The only kind of luck that follows us around is bad luck. I guess it's contagious."

Daikon did not respond. Even when the young Namekian came and healed his hand, all he could do was stare at it in amazement, forgetting even to thank him.


	5. Chapter 5

Song woke up in her bed, and was immediately horrified. She'd been drinking, hadn't she? She'd decided she wasn't going to do that anymore, why had she been out drinking? She blinked and tried to remember what had compelled her…

No. Not alcohol. Morphine. Trunks… the Lookout… Vegeta...

Vegeta!

She sat up, and then immediately fell back down, dizzy. It didn't feel all that much like a hangover now that she was fully awake. Less painful, for one. She could remember now, vaguely, Vegeta teasing her in the sky and some red-skinned alien? Had that been part of the drug haze or was that real?

Song made her unsteady way to the bathroom after a few more minutes in bed, only to find the door closed and locked. Who was in there? She was the only one on this floor. She knocked.

"Um—excuse me," a male voice said, deep and very embarrassed. Song stepped back. Who the heck was—

The door opened.

Oh. The alien. The alien was the one in her bathroom. Song stared, unable to speak. He was huge, taller than her by almost two feet and way more muscular than she remembered. The bathrobe he had on was too small for him, and consequently his entire chest and a long stripe of his thigh were on full display, each corded with muscle and faintly peppered with scars. He was holding himself rigid under her gaze, and his cheeks were dark, almost bruised-looking. Was he blushing? Was that what it looked like when someone with skin the color of a fire-engine blushed? She hoped so, because what with that, the embarrassed, almost frightened look on his face, and the scanty bathrobe, his enormous, dangerous-looking body went from frightening to vulnerable in a way Song hadn't known she was into.

She gulped, her cheeks red as his.

"I... beg your pardon," he mumbled, shuffling around her and staring steadily at the floor. She watched him go, heart pounding, and then went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her.

* * *

He was living here now, apparently. That was both good and bad. Good because, well, he was damn cute and his body was a pleasure to look at, but bad because, well...

Because his body was a pleasure to look at and both Vegeta and Bulma had noticed her noticing it. And she had ample opportunity to notice it. He was there in the Gravity Room when she dropped off Trunks for his daily training and he was there for breakfast, lunch, and, most days, dinner. And he was, for some reason, completely terrified of her.

At least, it seemed that way. Every time he caught sight of her he would duck his head and stare at the floor, but if she looked at him long enough his eyes would peek up and meet hers for a split second and then drop back down to the floor as though they'd been burned.

Was he as embarrassed about their first meeting as she was? Did he have a crush on her? Did his alien sensibilities find her utterly repulsive and he was too polite to say so? Whatever his problem was, it made him look bashful and shy, and she didn't want to like it nearly as much as she did. Since she couldn't avoid him she attempted ignoring him, but that backfired utterly as it turned out he wasn't looking at her just because she'd been looking at him. Every time he lifted his gaze to her and she pretended not to notice Bulma would stifle a laugh, and though big red himself didn't seem to be aware of the joke, Song definitely was.

Eventually she decided to take matters into her own hands.

"Look, do you have a problem with me, or what?"

She planted her hands on her hips, looking up at him from her post in front of the bathroom. She had waylaid him there on his way to a post-workout shower, and she immediately regretted her timing as he'd already ditched his shirt. He'd even draped it around his neck like a towel. Dammit.

For his part he also seemed to regret the lack of a shirt, because he clutched at both ends like he'd be able to pull it over himself. Startled, he stared at her full on, and she found that his eyes were as black as Vegeta's, but far softer.

"Uh," he said. She couldn't back down now, though she desperately wanted to.

"Because if you don't have a problem with me, you could at least try making conversation. We do live in the same house, after all."

She would make this whole thing his problem if she had to cram the idea down his throat. But it turned out she didn't need to, because he immediately ducked his head and spoke.

"I'm sorry, you're right, I've been... very rude. Um. What do you want to... talk about?"

She'd heard his voice before, she was certain, but somehow the softness of it surprised her. It took her a moment to realize he had unwittingly turned the tables on her.

"I don't mean we need to talk right _now_ ," she said disdainfully. "Just, you know..." Crap, where was she going with this? "In general. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Don't be a _stranger_? Inwardly she screamed at herself. Who talks like that? But he nodded, and she was interested to note that he no longer looked quite as terrified.

"I won't," he said, and she nodded and left him to his shower, cursing herself all the way to her room.

* * *

She expected him to leave her to take the initiative for more conversation, which was just fine with her, since she didn't intend to take it. But to her surprise the very next day he wandered into the atrium where she was watching Trunks play with dinosaurs. He walked right up to her, as casual as anything, and there apparently his courage failed him, because he stood silently next to her for almost a solid five minutes, pretending to be engrossed in a giant fern. Song decided to see how long he would permit the silence to stretch, and after another few minutes his discomfort apparently overcame his fear and he finally filled it.

"Ah... good... morning," Daikon whispered, still holding himself very still. By now she thought it was the freeze response, but mostly what it accomplished was making his muscles stand out ever so slightly more than they normally did. Was he considered ugly on his home planet or something? His face wasn't anything special— not hideous, not handsome— but his body...

"Good morning to you too," Song said after a too-long pause. "How's, um, your training going?"

For someone as criminally muscular as he was, he sure spent a lot of time trying to get stronger. He ducked his head twice in a row — a nod. "It's going... well."

A noise from the other side of the atrium startled them both, but it was just Trunks chasing a dinosaur. With Daikon's head turned she could see his hair trailing all the way down his back. It looked oddly soft for how stiff it was, and she suddenly and intensely wanted to touch it. She was about to dismiss such a thing as impossible when her brain informed her that he was so unwilling to be confrontational that if she pushed the issue he might well let her.

She gulped, but when he turned back to her she saw his eyes flick first to her own hair before settling down to their accustomed position staring at the floor. Was he as fascinated by her as she was by him? The idea made her bold. Without giving herself a chance to think about it too hard she stepped forward and took a lock of his hair in her hand.

"You ever think about getting a haircut?" She spoke automatically, but inside she was marveling at the texture: soft but very thick, almost like fur. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see him staring at her, completely frozen, but she maintained her charade of nonchalance. "Not that it doesn't look good long. It just seems like it would get in the way."

She finally met his eyes, like they were just making regular small talk and she was waiting for response. He didn't seem to be breathing, but eventually he wheezed out,

"N-not as much as you might think."

The abject fear in his eyes made Song feel ashamed of herself, and she dropped the lock of hair and stepped back. Desperate to keep up the facade of normalcy she asked, "How does that work? If I didn't put a gallon of hairspray in my hair every day it would fall in my eyes all the time."

For the first time since they'd met he deliberately met her eyes. He was frowning slightly, trying to figure something out. She frowned back.

"What?"

He sketched a vague curve in the air with his fingers—the shape of the long side of her hair. "It… does fall in your eyes all the time."

He was… he was actually _smiling_. It was just a little thing, only a slight upturn in the corners of his mouth, but it was genuine. He was... he was _teasing_ her.

So there _was_ a person behind all that fear and muscle. It made her feel repentant, and she returned his smile.

"You wanna..." she began, gesturing at her own hair, ( _"you wanna touch it, don't you?"_ ), but she cut herself off. She wasn't going to tease him anymore, not when his teasing was so gentle. But he caught the gist of it anyway and his dark eyes lit up.

"May I?" he said in his soft rumble. She held her breath and nodded. His hands, big as dinner plates, came within an inch of her face as he brushed his fingers so gently against her hair that it barely moved. She breathed in without moving, inhaling the scent of his palms. He smelled clean, like salt and soap.

After just two strokes he lowered his hand, looking down at the tips of his fingers in amazement. She told herself he was probably regretting getting hairspray on his hands, but the look on his face told her differently. He looked up and smiled at her again, tentatively. She returned it, and they stayed that way, smiling at each other, until Trunks bounded up and demanded lunch.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sir?" Daikon looked at Vegeta from across the gravity room where they were both engaged in a pre-workout stretch. "What was my father like?"

Vegeta thought for a moment, and then said, "Raditz was an annoying, hot-headed, arrogant low-level who wasn't worth the air he breathed. Why the fates should have chosen him to be one of the few survivors of our race, I will never know."

When Daikon did not reply, Vegeta smirked.

"Not what you were hoping for, boy?"

Daikon chuckled darkly.

"Sir, that was downright kind compared to what my mother used to say. Sometimes I think her hatred of him was the only thing that kept her going."

Vegeta straightened from the stretch he was doing, paused thoughtfully, and then bent over in the other direction.

"Why are you alive, boy?"

Daikon knew he wasn't merely referring to his motivations as opposed to his mother's, but he decided to play dumb anyway.

"I don't understand your meaning, sir."

Vegeta gave him a sharp look.

"A mixed-breed bastard on your planet would normally not be allowed to draw a second breath, and yet here you are, all grown up and looking for vengeance. I want to know why."

"I am my mother's only male kin," Daikon said uncertainly, but Vegeta shook his head impatiently.

"That does not matter. In fact, that means your mother should be dead as well. Why are you still alive? Who spared you?"

Daikon looked at the toes of his boots.

"My mother fought them for me," he said to his knees. "And won."

"And supposing you kill the Namekian and restore her honor. Will she then clean up the rest of the mess Raditz made?"

Vegeta understood Daikon's silence for the affirmative it was.

"I see," he said. He straightened again, and then sat down on the floor across from Daikon, resting his arm across a bent knee and giving him a piercing look. "Does Song know of this?"

Daikon lifted his head swiftly, eyes wide.

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "She knows none of it. Please…" He swallowed. "Please don't tell her."

"I may or I may not," the prince said loftily. "But you certainly aren't getting a say in that decision."

Daikon had no idea how to respond to that.

"The woman thinks the two of you are growing close," Vegeta said, into the growing silence. Daikon looked away quickly, but he was pretty sure Vegeta had already seen what he was looking for in his eyes. They were talking to each other now, it was true, but he was sure Song still only saw him as an oddity. He hadn't quite admitted to himself he was hoping for that to change. Vegeta continued. "I don't give a single damn what you do with yourself in your off hours, but know this: Song is amusing to me, and she takes care of the boy. The arrangement we have is convenient for me, and I will be severely displeased if it is in any way disrupted. Should I find that _you_ have been the disruption, I will not hesitate to kill you."

Daikon shivered a little, but he nodded. Satisfied, Vegeta jumped to his feet, motioning Daikon to join him.

"I'm not going easy on you today," he said, but it was what he always said before they sparred, and Daikon hoped it meant that would be the end of that.

* * *

And it was—from Vegeta.

Later that day Bulma called him back into the Gravity Room to do her a favor, but when he got there it was empty. He was about to turn around and leave, but the door shut in his face and locked, and then the engines gave the deep thrum that meant the gravity was about to come on.

Daikon swore and tensed, raising his ki as Vegeta had taught him, just in time to be merely brought to his knees by the sudden force instead of crushed flat. Gasping, he tried to crawl to the emergency switch, but the gravity increased until it was all he could do to simply keep his bones from falling out through his skin.

The video screen switched on.

"Hi, Daikon," Bulma said cheerily, her face appearing above him. He grunted. "Oh, dear, did I turn the gravity up too high?" she said in mock concern. "Well, while I've got you here, I just wanted to make one thing clear." She dropped the friendly façade. "Song may only be my cousin, and she may be annoying as hell, but she's one of the few people Trunks actually likes, so I'm taking a special interest. If you ever make her cry, or hurt her in any way, I'll make sure you suffer for it, and don't think I don't have other tricks up my sleeve for dealing with Saiyans. Being crushed in the Gravity Room would be a mercy compared to some of the stuff I can do."

He could see her image shift slightly, and the immense pressure dropped away, leaving him breathless.

"Just wanted to clear that up!" she said brightly. "See you later!"

The image switched off, and Daikon sat up, understanding for the first time why Vegeta let her bully him like he did. He stretched out his sore limbs, hoping nothing had been broken, and left the Gravity Room at nearly a run. This place was crazy. His intention was to go soak in the bath for a while and clear his head, but as he turned the corner to the stairs suddenly there was Song.

"Oh, hey, Daikon," she said, her face lighting up, hand flying to her hair to run her fingers through it. Daikon didn't wait for her to finish.

"I'm going out for the day," he said hurriedly. "See you!"

He opened the nearest window and flew out, ignoring the thought that she would probably think he was avoiding her. Well, he was. For his own safety.

He flew aimlessly for nearly twenty minutes, but then he spotted another flier in the distance and altered his course to meet up with them. It was Krillin.

"Hey there, Daikon," he said, waving. "What's up?"

"Um." Daikon wasn't sure what to say. ' _I'm avoiding my hosts because they both seem to want to kill me'_ didn't hold up even in his head. But Krillin nodded sagely.

"Girl trouble, huh?"

Daikon felt his mouth fall open. "No!" he protested. "Why would you say that?"

Krillin laughed. "Well, I _was_ joking, but it looks like I hit the mark. Why don't you come over for lunch and you can tell me about it."

"There's nothing to tell!" Daikon insisted, but he followed Krillin anyway.

* * *

Lunch was burnt casserole, courtesy of Android 18, so Krillin and Daikon ate frozen dinners on the beach while 18 went to another island to blow off some steam by blowing things up.

"And then, after all that, I ran into Song and I just…" Daikon bowed his head over his empty tray. "Ran away," he mumbled. "Out the window."

Krillin laughed. Daikon scowled.

"Ah, youth," Krillin said, still chuckling, "You're reminding me of the first time I met 18. I was so scared I nearly wet myself, I don't mind telling you."

The bald man sat back in his deck chair and admired the view, which was beautiful, Daikon had to admit. He'd never seen an ocean from this angle before, and somehow, even though he could see less of it than he could from space, it felt far bigger.

"That's quite the thorny problem you've got there, kiddo," Krillin added, still looking out to sea.

"I don't see how," Daikon said. "All I have to do is avoid her until I leave. And anyway," he added more forcefully, remembering himself, "I don't think of her that way, so it doesn't matter."

"Sure you don't," Krillin said, looking at him slyly. Daikon glared back at him.

"I don't," he protested. "She's just… I just…"

"Right," Krillin said, turning back to the ocean as though he'd just made an unassailable argument. "Besides, you live with her. Even as big as Capsule Corp. is, avoiding her isn't really an option."

Daikon didn't answer. He didn't really want to avoid Song anyway, but a part of him knew he should. Gaining attachments here on some alien world was a bad idea, especially when he was only staying here for as long as it took to kill Piccolo and then he was leaving. And then…

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you, Dai," Krillin said, breaking into his thoughts. "You got, like, a job back on your planet? A girlfriend? Something to keep you there, I mean?"

"What are you getting at?" Daikon said dully, though he was pretty sure he knew.

"I _mean_ , what's stopping you from staying here when you're done with... what you came here for? A guy can't live with his mother forever, right? It's not like it's _impossible_ for you and Song to—"

Daikon stood quickly, dropping his empty tray onto the beach.

"Thank you for lunch," he said, staring steadily out to sea. "I should be getting back."

"Whoa, hey there buddy, I didn't mean to scare you off." Krillin stood as well, positioning himself in front of Daikon. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"There's nothing to talk about!" Daikon shouted, and was horrified to hear his voice crack. Krillin's face softened, and he let Daikon turn away and stare at the ocean for a while, blinking rapidly.

"They're going to kill me," he admitted after a while. He wasn't sure why, but something about Krillin—his height? The dark humor he could catch glimpses of every so often? The almost fatherly way he spoke to Daikon?— disarmed him. "If I return," he clarified. "Killing Raditz is only the first step to restoring her honor. Then they erase the evidence."

"That's terrible!" Krillin exclaimed, and Daikon turned his head enough to see him looking outraged. Seeing that look on someone's face on his behalf stung. "We can't let you go back there if they're just going to kill you!"

"What choice do I have? She's my mother. I can't just abandon her." Daikon clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. "It's worse for her, you know. They mostly just ignore me, but there are all sorts of things you can do without repercussion to a woman with no honor."

"I'm sorry," Krillin said softly. "I had no idea."

Daikon shook his head sharply, as if to clear it.

"I don't want to go back," he announced, and it was the first time he'd even let himself think that thought all the way through, much less say it out loud. "It isn't as if she even… But I don't have a choice. I can't just stay here. I would if I could, but I can't."

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to force the tears back. He couldn't remember being this close to crying since early childhood, but then, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had been so kind to him either. Krillin gave him a moment, and then asked,

"How old are you, Dai?"

He sniffed, wiping his nose on his wrist and feeling much younger than he was.

"Fifty-two," he said. "But I think your planet takes a lot longer to make its rotations than mine. I…" Well, there was no point in not admitting it, not when he'd given away everything else. "Technically I don't come of age for another year, but my mother figured it'd take me that long to find him. Um…"

He bent down and did some quick math in the sand, wiping his nose again as he did so.

"Sixteen," he said, straightening. A baby. Krillin made a noise Daikon couldn't quite interpret, and shook his head.

"That's really young," he said. Daikon quirked his mouth down slightly.

"Not that young," he protested lightly.

"No, you're only a few years older than Gohan, and I still keep thinking of him as a little kid," Krillin countered. "I thought you were older."

Daikon shrugged. Out at sea a bright flash illuminated a portion of the horizon, and Krillin shaded his eyes.

"Looks like 18's almost done. There'll probably be a big wave out here in a minute, help me move the deck chairs back inside."

Daikon did so, and they sat on the roof and waited for 18 to come back.

"Listen, Dai, I know it's a lot less crowded over at Bulma's place, but if you need somewhere to crash for a night or two, you can always come here."

"Thank you," Daikon murmured, as 18 touched down on the beach, looking mildly annoyed instead of furious. Krillin jumped off the house and greeted her, but Daikon stayed where he was, watching the ocean turn choppy, then surge up the beach, and then grow placid again.


	7. Chapter 7

"Here Daikon," Bulma said to him one morning at breakfast, handing him a box. "Happy Birthday, or something."

He took it, confused.

"It is not my birthday," he said slowly, holding the box lightly.

"Well, whatever. That's your scouter. I just got around to fixing it last night, and I thought I'd give it to you."

He squeezed the box gently.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

He set the box aside and did not open it until that night. Sitting on his bed, he opened it and sat staring at its contents for a long time. Then he reached gingerly inside and affixed the scouter to his ear.

"Messages," he said, and the scouter began displaying the messages he had missed while it had been broken. He deleted all the messages intended for the former recipient of the device (whoever it was had apparently had sixteen different girlfriends and about eighteen different aliases), and then, from months ago, found a message from Palrey.

It took him a long time to gather the courage to play the message, and when it came it was short and to the point.

"Your mother is dead. Don't bother coming back."

* * *

Song awoke to the sound of her bedroom door opening. Heart pounding, she lay still, hoping whoever it was would realize their mistake and go away. The door closed, but the figure was inside the room now, stepping silently over to the bed. In the darkness all Song could make out was a tall silhouette, but as the figure turned its head slightly it caught a thin stream of light from a crack in the blinds and she could tell it was Daikon. He stood over her for a long moment, and then sat down cross-legged next to her bed.

"Dai?" she whispered, relief mingling with fear. It was only Dai, Dai wouldn't do anything, he was just sitting there, why was he just sitting there—?

"I am sorry," he apologized, but he did not move to leave. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she lied. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer for a long beat. "I could not sleep."

She lay there, watching his dark form, listening to his breathing. Gradually it turned uneven, and then halting, and eventually she realized he was trying not to cry.

"Daikon?" she whispered again, even as his sobs grew louder. "Dai, what is it?"

He laid his head down carefully on the bed next to her, whole body shaking with the effort of not making noise. She put a hand on his head, and he clutched it with his own, and they remained that way for what felt like hours. Eventually he quieted, and she tried again.

"Daikon, what's the matter?"

"I just received word," he said, and stopped. "I just—" She heard him taking in deep breaths, and then he said in a strangled voice, "My mother is dead."

She couldn't think of anything to say. For a long moment she lay there, with her hand on his head, silent, and then she slipped her hand down to cup his damp cheek.

"I'm so sorry, Daikon. How… how did you find out?"

"A message," he ground out, fresh tears sliding down her fingers. "They said—not to come back—"

Again no words came to her. She stroked his cheek with her thumb and slid her other arm out from under the blankets to stroke his hair. Eventually she said,

"You can stay here."

He nodded, and they stayed like that until both of them fell asleep.

* * *

"Where is Daikon?"

Song fidgeted at the breakfast table, toying with her eggs.

"He's not hungry," she mumbled. Vegeta looked up at her sharply, and Bulma lowered her newspaper marginally.

"Not hungry?" the prince repeated incredulously. "The boy's half Saiyan; how can he not be hungry?"

Song shrugged, bowing her head so that her curtain of hair slid farther over her face. Daikon had been sitting in one of the chairs in her room when she'd awoken, looking out the window. He didn't look as though he'd slept much, and when she touched his shoulder he'd told her to go ahead to breakfast without him.

Vegeta hmphed and went back to his food.

"If he thinks he can just skip meals and still train like always he's sadly mistaken," he muttered.

"Um," Song said, staring at her plate. "I don't think he's going to train today either."

Vegeta froze, a forkful of sausage halfway to his mouth. Then he set down his fork with a clink and stood.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bulma asked as he strode out of the room.

Vegeta didn't say anything, but it was clear he was making for Daikon's room. Song jumped up and followed him.

"Um!" she called after his retreating back, jogging to keep pace with his quick strides. "He's not feeling well―you should―it's not―"

He ignored her and pounded on Daikon's door. When there was no answer Song coughed and pointed surreptitiously to her own door.

Vegeta rolled his eyes and slammed the door open so hard the hinges broke. He barged into the room and stopped directly in front of Daikon, who was still sitting in the chair Song had left him in. "What is the meaning of this?"

Daikon looked at him blankly. Vegeta growled.

"The girl tells me you're not going to train today. But I know that can't possibly be true, can it?"

"My mother is dead." Daikon's voice was an emotionless monotone that hurt to listen to. But Vegeta snorted.

"So?"

Daikon's face twitched but that was all.

"So there's no point."

"No point to what?"

"Anything."

From where she was situated Song could see Vegeta's lip curl in disgust, like he had stepped in something sticky and it was all over his shoe. She tiptoed into the room and Vegeta glanced at her, then looked back at Daikon, smirking. He aimed two of his fingers like a gun at Daikon's head, energy crackling around them.

"Then there's just one thing left to do, isn't there?"

Daikon, who had not moved except to speak, now turned his head so that Vegeta's fingertips aimed straight at the center of his forehead. He almost looked like he was smiling.

"Yes, there is."

Vegeta's lip curled in disgust again, like he had tried to remove the sticky thing on his shoe only to find it smearing even worse. His fingertips lost their crackling glow, but before Song could be relieved, he had clenched that hand into a fist and jabbed it into Daikon's face so hard Daikon flew backwards into the wall, crashing through it into the yard below. Vegeta followed him through the hole, and after only a moment's hesitation Song turned and ran to find Bulma, the only person she knew who had any chance of stopping this.

* * *

Daikon lay on the ground where he had landed, his eyes lazily tracking his teacher's form as he jumped out after him. Vegeta landed next to him, arms folded and eyes forbidding.

"Get up," he ordered. Daikon did as he was told, the command bypassing his brain and traveling straight to his muscles. "This is unseemly. So she's dead. People die all the time. Are you going to sit there and tell me you no longer care about anything simply because of _that_?"

"She was my mother," Daikon said dully.

"And she was going to kill you," Vegeta reminded him.

Slow ripples of anger made their way up Daikon's stomach, but they were too weak as yet to lift the stupor he was in.

"She was still my mother."

"And I am your prince! Come back inside right now and forget this nonsense."

Daikon shook his head slowly.

"There's no point ―"

Before he could even finish Vegeta's arm blurred, and Daikon found himself on his back, lip bleeding.

"Get up!" Vegeta ordered, and again Daikon obeyed without meaning to.

"Stop hitting me!" he shouted. Vegeta grinned.

"That's more like it. Now, are you going to come to breakfast and then train, or do I have to continue beating sense into you?"

"Why do you even care?" Daikon demanded. "What does it matter if I train now? She's _dead._ I was never supposed to exist in the first place, and now what little reason I had for living is gone. I ―"

He found himself crashing through a tree, Vegeta's arm lowering as he watched. He blinked and the prince was there, hauling him upright.

"You _stupid_ ―" He struck Diakon across the face, " _worthless_ ―" Again, " _pathetic_ excuse for a half-breed! I took you in because you wanted to train!" Another strike. Daikon knew he deserved every blow, every word. "You said you wanted to become stronger!" Another blow, and Daikon felt his nose crunch. "And now I find all it takes for your resolve to crumble is one little setback!"

"Setback―?" Daikon protested through a nose full of blood, but Vegeta shook him.

"You continued training even though it meant your death! How foolish of me to assume that was bravery!" Strike. "Resolve!" Strike. "Pride!" Strike. "To find now that it was merely cowardice sickens me! Have you nothing of the Saiyan warrior in you after all? Was your equally worthless father really such a pathetic example of my kind that even his offspring inherit his weakness?" Vegeta's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Or is this mewling spinelessness the final legacy of your _mother_?"

The words echoed around Daikon's head, repeating and interfering with themselves until they were nothing but a meaningless roar. He felt his mouth pull itself into a snarl. Nothing hurt anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing but inflicting pain, as much of it as he could before he died.

* * *

Krillin was two inches away from sneaking a kiss on 18 when an explosion boomed over the city. 18 looked up in alarm, her cheek connecting with his lips. She spared him an amused, puzzled glance, before turning back to the source of the explosion.

"That sounded like Capsule Corp.," she said. Krillin groaned.

"Of course it is. Can't even go on a date without…" His grumbling trailed off as he took to the air, and 18 followed, smiling.

* * *

When they arrived Vegeta was standing on the back lawn with his arms folded, smirking as Daikon ground his fists into his face and torso. As far as Krillin could tell the prince was only putting out enough power to keep Daikon's blows from doing any damage. Krillin felt relieved the explosion hadn't heralded an alien invasion, but 18 was frowning in a way he knew meant she was pissed.

"I thought you were training him," she said, loud enough for Vegeta to hear. "Or is that what it looks like when someone's been trained by you?"

Vegeta raised an eyebrow at her, mildly outraged. "Think you can do better, washing machine?"

"I know I can," 18 said through half-lidded eyes. But instead of getting angry, Vegeta shrugged in feigned nonchalance and grabbed Daikon behind the neck, driving his other hand into his gut. Daikon wheezed and his eyes rolled back into his head. Vegeta tossed the boy off his fist and into 18, who caught him.

"Then be my guest. He can come back when he grows a pair."

And Vegeta turned on his heel and walked back into Capsule Corp., leaving Krillin with his mouth open and 18 glaring daggers at his retreating back.

"What the hell just happened?" Krillin finally said. Without a word 18 turned and strode away, still carrying Daikon. Krillin jogged to keep up, ready to remind her that they didn't exactly have room for a house guest.

"Shut up, I know," 18 said before he could say anything. She took off into the air, still holding her burden, and, smiling, Krillin followed.

* * *

Bulma was waiting with Song in the foyer.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?" she said, but Vegeta had his eyes on Song. The girl was seething, and anger, he thought, did not look good on her.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded through her teeth. "He was grieving for his mother."

"You should be thanking me, girl," Vegeta informed her. Song flung out her arms.

"Why?! You beat him up and then you kicked him out!"

"He's angry now," the prince said evenly. "When you lose everything, the best thing to do is stay angry."

She stared at him. "You. Are all. Crazy!" she screamed, storming out of the room.

Vegeta turned to see Bulma looking at him oddly. It took him a moment, but he eventually recognized it as compassion.

"What?" he snapped, pushing past her out of the room. She followed, her annoyance spent. It wasn't as though she'd never patched up her house before, and it was rare to hear Vegeta talk that way. Like he had feelings.


End file.
